


No More Bad Days

by aurics



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, except it's a teahouse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:00:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28205724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurics/pseuds/aurics
Summary: Ferdinand is having a bad day. The new waitress Marianne is painfully nervous. They both learn that mistakes aren't irreversible.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Marianne von Edmund
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	No More Bad Days

**Author's Note:**

> happy birthday mint!!! ♥ ilu almost as much as u love ferdiemari!!! here is my measly contribution to this otp's fertile yet unsown land. may we witness great harvest for them in the coming days....,,,,

It is officially the worst day of Ferdinand’s life.

He doesn’t often have bad days. Usually, Ferdinand would find a way to soundly conquer them; ripping off whatever negativity may be sprouting right from their very roots, trampling all over them—gracefully, of course— and emerging triumphant. He doesn’t see what use there is in dwelling on things outside of his control, and believes there's very little that he can’t solve with the help of a few cups of tea and three hearty servings of self-confidence. 

It’s what’s gotten him this far, after all. Past his turbulent admission into Garreg Mach University, past his father’s scandal that almost lost him his scholarship—his ability to forge ahead is something he has always taken pride in. 

So imagine his dismay when he realises that his usual recipe of self-confidence and tea proves painfully ineffective. 

To start, he’d messed up his morning brew by somehow short-fusing the fancy kettle Lorenz had gifted him last Christmas ( _“I can assure you there is nothing_ quite _like the taste of water artfully boiled for a perfect brew, don’t you think, Ferdinand?”)._ Then, in his mild panic not to set the pantry on fire, Ferdinand had miscalculated the necessary strength to open the tea packet and spilled the fine leaves he’d lugged all the way from a small, artisan Adrestian teashop last summer all over the kitchen countertop and floor. 

“Hubert is going to be _livid_ ,” he’d muttered to himself with a wince, already imagining his roommate’s wrath once he eventually crawls out of the lair that was the room he’d split the rent with Ferdinand for. Not wanting to stoke the (figurative) fire in the house any further, he’d set about sweeping and wiping tea leaves off of all surfaces possible.

That was when Ferdinand saw the clock in his peripheral vision and realised he was terribly late for class. It leaves him with no time at all to properly brush— _groom_ —his hair that now sits on top of his head as a scraggly, harshly towel-dried mess, appearing unsalvageable no matter how many bobby pins he’d desperately tried to stick in place. Thanking his past self for having chosen his outfit the night earlier, he’d all but managed to trip out of the house and make it in time for his archeology lecture.

Which, of course, was rescheduled last-minute after the Professor had come down with the flu.

“How could I have missed the e-mail?” Ferdinand mutters sullenly as he pads across the empty hallways, gripping his phone and consciously aware of everyone sitting in their _correct_ lectures during their _correct_ time slots. He glares at the e-mail timestamp— _9:23PM—_ and feels a headache creeping in. “And who reschedules a class at half past 9 _at night_?”

He means to turn on his heels and walk back home, but then remembers the state he’d left their shared bathroom in (a complete mess, hair products thrown astray and towel probably flung into some sorry corner). Deciding that facing Hubert in this battered, defeated state cannot be an option, Ferdinand takes a sharp left to his favourite local teahouse, _Verdant Teas,_ in hopes of finding the balm to his ailments in one or two fine china cups.

The place is as refined as he remembers it—all deep, dark wood interiors accented with sleek metal, a cold edge to an otherwise warm facade. Potted plants occupy every nook and cranny, creeper plants hang low from ceilings and succulents adorn each table. Ferdinand feels liberated and safe all at once, here in this little teahouse he’s come to consider a sanctuary, and already he feels the day’s unease begin to chip away. 

There is one anomaly, though. Hilda, who usually mans the cash register by the entrance, seems to be nowhere in sight today, unless she's had a sudden change of heart and dyed her hair a shade of baby blue.

The teahouse is quiet, and Ferdinand’s arrival _was_ a little unrefined, sliding the door open like a barbarian like that. So it’s no wonder that the blue-haired girl—who Ferdinand ascertains is definitely _not_ Hilda—jumps in surprise, looking like a hare snared in a big, burlish trap.

He means to utter a heartfelt apology, but she beats him to the exchange by bowing unsteadily as he approaches, voice quiet when she says, “H-Hi. Can I help you?” 

Ferdinand stops at the counter, blinks—and then quickly drops his eyes to the cashier’s name tag, because he’s decided that he needs to put a name to the face he will remember forever. 

“Sir?” she repeats quietly—in confusion—and her voice is so, so soft it makes Ferdinand want to melt into his Oxfords. Then, most likely noticing his name tag-ogling, she says, “ah, yes, I’m Marianne.” 

Ah. Marianne. Who is apparently a ‘Tea-rainee!’ and would probably appreciate a word or two of encouragement from a customer. “A perfect name to suit such a perfect face,” is what Ferdinand ends up saying. 

“I—sir?” Marianne seems as confused as he feels—which isn’t right at all. He means to _relieve_ her of such confusion, not _add_ to it. “That… is not the name of some tea leaves, is it?”

“Um, no, it was not. I—“ 

“Oh! Then—I’m so sorry!” An embarrassed shade of red finds home in her cheeks and Marianne drops her gaze to the floor. “W-would you like to get a table? For, um, one?” 

Ferdinand is about to reply with another string of sweet words when something stops him in his tracks. Though anxiousness is something he rarely feels, he understands how paralysing it can be, and wants nothing more than to ease some of those worries from this trainee waitress who looks convinced that she is out of place in this refined, slightly bougie establishment.

But he takes one look at her hands, wringing themselves together in uncertainty, and wonders if sweet words are what she needs right now. “Yes, please, a table for one would be fantastic!” he settles for this, instead—a tad bit too enthusiastic, perhaps, but the sag of relief in Marianne’s shoulders tells him he’s headed in the right direction. 

She guides him to a little corner table, with padded seating wrapped around it as carved-in recesses. Ferdinand loves folding himself into the allotted space—there is something so personal about fitting yourself under the table and melding your back against the wooden wall, accompanied by friends and acquaintances with whom he could share his interests, tea or otherwise.

“You seem very in your element here, Miss Marianne. Are you an enthusiast as well?” 

There’s a rustling, and then, “May I take your order, please?” Marianne’s soft voice replies. Ferdinand realises she’s carefully peeling off the pages of her little notepad with such concentration that she still hasn’t looked up.

“Ah, yes. The Southern Fruit blend, please, and a serving of the sticky rice cake. Fruit blends are always the best, don’t you think?”

“Yes, they are,” Marianne offers him a small smile and Ferdinand’s heart just about bursts out of his chest. It seems the topic of tea puts her somewhat at ease—or at least, more ease than the topic of her own face—so he dips his toes back in just as she slips the notepad back in her pocket. “Especially paired with the original rice cakes.” 

“Do you like tea, Miss Marianne?” 

She clasps her hands carefully in front of her, deep in thought. Ferdinand thinks it makes her entire face light up with a warm, intelligent glow. “They can be pleasant with the right company,” she offers—and then, seemingly realising Ferdinand’s lack of company, adds hurriedly, “O-or with none, at all! That’s good too. More than fine.” 

She turns on her heels and walks away briskly in the direction of the pantry before he can even reassure her he’s not offended. He, too, enjoys tea with good company after all, and has no qualms that Marianne would be one. Those who seek fine company, Ferdinand has learned, tend to offer good companionship in return.

For once, he feels restless waiting for his drink. The word _company_ floats aimlessly in his head and he can’t help but crane his neck in the direction of the kitchen now and then, even though he knows it won’t be a while until his tea is ready. It’s not strange for Hilda to be absent from the quiet teahouse—good on her for finally recruiting a co-worker—but with only two other patrons, the establishment feels unsettlingly silent without the quiet greeting and unsure steps of Marianne, the Tea-rainee. 

After what seems like eons, he spots her weaving her way through the tables carrying a black metal tea tray, laden with a pale blue teapot and matching teacup and, tantalisingly, a plate of small, delectable-looking sticky rice cakes. Perhaps the cancellation of his lecture had been divine intervention, meant to reunite him with the true pleasures of life.

“I apologise in advance,” Marianne whispers to him suddenly, a slight tremble to her voice. She’s _nervous_ , and awfully so. “It’s my first day, and you’re the first _real_ customer I’ll be serving…” 

“I look forward to it,” Ferdinand says and he finds himself meaning every word of it, genuinely.

This seems to only fluster Marianne even further, because she seems to dither in her placements of the cutlery, hovering over empty-but-not-quite-so-empty spaces already occupied by the standing menu, succulent plant pot and other small table decorations. It shows in her placing of the fork for the rice cakes with a too-loud clang, her moving of the plate a little too quick and coming dangerously close to launching the rice cakes off their dish. And, of course, the biggest obstacle—the tea set, for which Marianne struggles to find room amongst the table paraphernalia.

“Here,” Ferdinand starts, reaching out, “Let me move that for you—“

Too late—Marianne’s elbow nudges the pot of succulent, and the teacup—placed precariously close to the edge—free-falls to the floor and shatters into tiny splinters. The teapot, knocked onto its side, is tumbling along the length of the table and teetering along the edge until it just about tips over. Ferdinand is quick to grab it by the handle and righting it, though not before almost all its contents have emptied itself all over the polished hardwood surface. 

“Oh my goodness—I’m so sorry.” Marianne’s hands are trembling as she crouches down to gather the teacup shards in her hands. Her eyes are downcast and embarrassed as she straightens up once again. She looks like she’d rather be anywhere but in front of Ferdinand right now. “I’m sorry, I always mess things up—maybe I shouldn’t be the one pouring you your tea—let me get someone else—“

“No! Please,” interrupts Ferdinand, startling Marianne into dropping a couple of shards back on the floor. He rounds the corner to gingerly pick them up, meaning to give them back to Marianne before he notices tiny droplets of blood on her palms where the pieces have cut into her skin. She doesn’t seem to notice this. He tucks the shards in his coat pocket. “Please—I’d still like to try your brew. I’m sure you make them perfectly.” 

There is nothing wrong with what Marianne had done—it’s just a case of bad luck, the plant being in the way and all, and Ferdinand loathes to see her take such a setback to heart. Not when she’d been so intent on doing everything to the best of her abilities. Discounting her efforts like that would be a true display of injustice—and Ferdinand was having none of it.

“Please, Miss Marianne,” he fixes his gaze on her, “I just want you to know that one mistake does not define your entire tea-brewing ability, which I am sure are more than stellar.”

Marianne is silent for a moment. “I’m… just Marianne,” she finally replies.

Now it’s Ferdinand’s turn to fumble with his words, as he smiles and thinks of what to say. Hilda chooses that exact moment to walk out of the staff room. Look, Marianne, I know it’s quiet right now but you _kinda_ still need to be at the cash—oh _shit_ , what happened? Are you okay?” 

“Y-yeah.” Marianne is still looking at him. Ferdinand doesn’t know what to make of the expression in her eyes, but she finds the words to articulate it, anyway. “Thank you. I’ll—I’ll try and re-make your brew now.”

He lets out a breath he doesn’t realise he’s been holding, and watches as Hilda helps Marianne gather the pieces and the emptied teapot onto the tray, their voices sounding far away as Ferdinand absent-mindedly helps them wipe the spillage with a couple of paper towels (despite Marianne’s insistence that she’ll do it herself). Somehow, Marianne’s determination to remake the brew herself eases Ferdinand’s worries.

( _His_ worries? When did Marianne’s worries become his?)

The thought occupies his mind until Marianne re-appears again, this time with a new olive green teapot and a couple of plasters on her palms. Conspicuously leaning back to give her space, he takes note of the position of the table succulents, glaring at them as though they would spring out of their positions to obstruct her once more.

“Are you a student at Garreg Mach University too, Miss—I mean, Marianne?” he ventures, trying for small talk. 

Surprise flits across her face—the pleased kind—and her grip on the teapot handle relaxes a little as she settles it on the table. “Yes, I am. Final year. And yourself?”

“Proudly so! And the same cohort, at that.”

She smiles, a hint of ruefulness behind it as she gently places a teacup in front of Ferdinand. “Yes, I thought so. You look like you’re the perfect fit for the school.” 

Ferdinand’s smile falters as he settles into a confused frown. “A perfect fit? How… What do you mean by that?”

“Well,” Marianne slowly lifts the teapot, tilting it cautiously until the hot liquid pours out in a single, steady stream. Ferdinand doesn’t watch the steam rise from the cup like he usually does—the concentration on Marianne’s face is much more fascinating. “Everyone at Garreg Mach is so… ambitious. It’s a competitive university to start with, but everyone just _knows_ what they want to do, are so _sure_ of themselves and well put-together all the time...” She stops, then chuckles uncertainly. “I’m none of those things, but you. You most certainly are.” 

“Marianne, all that sounds like you’re describing yourself.” 

“You should see me out of this uniform,” laughs Marianne—light, airy, but Ferdinand hears the weight behind it. “I can be a downright mess.” 

“I think you must know that you’re actually catching me on one of the worst days I’ve had in a long time.” He gestures at the mess on his head. “I mean, my hair… it’s not usually this horrible to look at, I promise. Nothing was going right this morning.” 

Marianne’s smile is lopsided. “You must be amazing in your usual days, then.”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant,” says Ferdinand hurriedly, not wanting to give the wrong impression. “What I mean is, sometimes… sometimes how we see ourselves can be completely different from how others see us. You say you possess none of the qualities that most people associate with Garreg Mach students. I know we’ve—um, only interacted for a short while,” and here he hesitates, unsure if what he’s about to say is welcome or not, before deciding there is only one way to find out, “But from what I’ve seen I can confidently say that you have those qualities and more. You are refined and graceful, even in the way you fix mistakes—and most of all you are sincere and loving.” He lowers his gaze to her hands, clasped around the tea tray. “Although you may be unsure of it now, you know your purpose. I can tell by the way you handle the fine china. That is what I think any…way… ” 

Ferdinand promptly shuts up, feeling heat flare up in his cheeks. The way Marianne is holding his gaze steady, seemingly hanging onto his every word—he wonders if he’s said too much.

“You know,” Marianne starts, “you’re not the first person to compliment me, but it’s the first time anyone’s compliment have made me feel better. So, thank you.” 

Ferdinand sits there, slightly stunned, because in all honestly it's not the kind of reply he expected. He’s too used to people brushing his words off as superfluous or nonsense, perhaps his sincerity coming on too strong that by the time it reaches the recipient’s ears it’s mutated into insincerity. 

He realises he has yet to take a sip of his tea. “You don’t have to thank me, I am just telling you the truth.”

“Well, I’m thankful all the same,” she returns, still smiling. She gives a little bow before turning back the way she came. 

“Would you like to join me, Marianne?” he calls out just before she goes out of earshot. It’s a little embarrassing, raising his voice in such a quiet room, but he can’t stop himself. “I know you’re on your shift now, but I don’t have anything for the rest of the day, and—“ Ferdinand brushes a strand of hair from his face, a rare nervous tic. “Well. Like you said, tea would be better with good company, after all.”

“I’m sorry... I have classes to attend after my shift.” 

“Ah, yes, of course, apologies if—” 

“But—but maybe next time?” she offers quietly. “And what you said, about one mistake not defining... well, everything else. I hope you know it applies to your bad day, too.” Without waiting to hear Ferdinand’s reply she disappears into the back room. Hilda emerges a few moments later, casting a confused glance at Ferdinand.

It takes all of his willpower not to jump up, punch the air and shout in triumph right then and there. Instead, he curls his fists into happy balls before reaching out to finally take a sip of his tea.

The brew turns out to be more bitter than what he’d usually prefer—a sign that the leaves have been left in the pot for too long before it’s been brought to the table. Yet Ferdinand finds that he doesn’t mind at all, not even the small stain on the sleeve of his button-up from Marianne’s earlier spill. Because behind the over-brewed tea, as potent as its bitter taste, is effort—an effort made to rectify an earlier mistake, to compensate for a blunder through taste.

Ferdinand grins to himself. Perhaps there are worse days to have.

**Author's Note:**

> i kept typing bad day as bday god help me


End file.
